For she had eyes and chose me.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.